Dear Dreary.
I think the woman who runs 'The Dripping Sausage' cafe at the end if our road has feelings for me and I'm not sure her intentions are wholly honourable.
Every time I go in she's there at the sink suggestively washing her rolling pin, whilst looking at me, more like she'd just had a stroke than anything else.
It's the same scenario every time, bending over the bay Marie telling me she'll keep my meat warm until she can slip it between her fresh, firm baps.
I've so far managed to avoid the tossed salad but not the question as to whether I prefer a two or four fingered kit kat.
She's just started a home delivery service. What if she arrives on my doorstep with a hot beef muffin?
Yours,
Patrick Bexbistle.


Dear Paddy.
Seems to me the only sausage that’s dripping here is your own. I note that you fail to name the caterer in question or even describe her. Maybe its time to respond to her advances and get to know her a little . Why not test the water by asking if she serves up hot crumpet. If this goes well, order a delivery of two full English breakfasts, in bed, with a special request that she blows on your hot plum tomatoes. This is not the time for waffling or making a hash of it. A hearty brekky sets you up for the day. And she'll be doing the washing up!
Go for it.
Dreary. x